


Cannot Fail That Rendezvous

by derryderrydown



Category: Torchwood
Genre: First World War, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-01
Updated: 2010-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Tommy returns to the trenches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cannot Fail That Rendezvous

The trench is new, only four feet deep, and Jack bends double as he feels his way along in the darkness. He stops at the first dugout and slaps the blanket acting as a roof. A moment while the men inside extinguish their cigarettes and then the blanket moves under his hands.

"Who wants to go for a nice walk in the moonlight?" he asks, keeping his voice quiet. There's not much chance of the sound carrying, not over the crash of the minnies and the whine of the whizz-bangs, but it's not a risk he wants to take.

"There's no moon," one of the men - Russell, he thinks - points out.

"Even better. The Germans won't see us."

A groan. "Is this an order, sir?"

"Do I have to make it one?" And he hates being in charge, hates the hint of command that creeps into his voice.

One by one, the men crawl out of the dugout until only Brockless remains.

"You not coming, Brockless?" Jack asks. "You'll hurt my feelings, turning me down like that."

"I'm on duty. Runner for the major."

"I should be a bloody runner," Mottershead mutters and Jack ignores him.

"Come on, then, children. Time to get our wire and go play in the mud."

They make their way along the communication sap, each keeping a hand on the man in front, and pick up their issue of pickets and wire. Back along the sap to the new trench and Jack stops at each gun and tells the crew there's a wire party going out. He's seen too many men shot by jumpy British troops.

He counts off each man into order. Russell - when he's stressed, his strong Liverpool accent gives way to something a lot more refined. Worsley - writes to his mother every day, telling her that he's miles behind the front line and hasn't even seen a German yet. Mottershead - will play cards with anybody who asks and carefully judges his cheating to come out only a little ahead. Farrell - stops to stroke every horse he comes across and was once seen to shed tears over a dead mule.

Good men, all of them.

Jack stands on the firestep and waits for a lull. Flash of a minnie behind them and as it dies away, he crawls over the top. Half a body length and he waits for the pressure of Russell's hand on his heel before moving on. Wait again for Worsley to join the train, then Mottershead and Farrell and he carries on crawling towards the break in the wire.

Whenever he pauses, Russell presses against his heel, a reassurance that they're all still there.

A flare goes up, _phut!_, red light making No Man's Land look even more hellish, and Jack freezes dead still, face to the mud. They'll see him only if he moves and he barely even breathes.

The flare seems to hang there forever but finally it drops and Jack can breathe again. Russell presses against his heel and Jack moves on.

It's hard to navigate out here. He feels as though he's covered a hundred yards but he knows it's only thirty. The flare might have ruined his night vision but he was able to get his bearings and now he slants left.

And then there's the press of air, the horror-filled whine of an approaching shell, and they're already lying flat, there's no point in running, and Jack hates these moments.

When he takes that first breath of pain and opens his eyes, it's daylight. He doesn't move. He doesn't want to die again. Doesn't want the thump of a bullet, German or British, tearing into his lungs and heart. Doesn't want the slow fade of bleeding to death.

He shuts his eyes again, pretends that he's still dead, and he waits.

It takes half a lifetime but, eventually, the sun goes down and he starts the endless journey back to where he thinks his own trenches are.

He could be going completely wrong. He could be going to the German trenches. He could be going parallel to the trenches, a journey that won't end until he reaches the sea, but he hears talking, muttering, and risks calling out, little more than a loud whisper, "Wire party coming in."

The muttering stops. "Password?" somebody finally says.

"I only know yesterday's."

The click of a rifle, loud in the darkness. "I hear more than one person coming, you're all dead."

"Just me," Jack says, and starts wriggling forward again.

* * *

Jack finishes the letter to Russell's family and comes out of his dugout to check on his men. Brockless is standing on the firestep, watching No Man's Land, but he turns when he hears Jack and there's something in his expression that Jack's never seen before.

"What is it?" he asks.

"You come back," Brockless says. "You _always_ come back. And you come back alone. You bastard."

And Jack wonders why he didn't recognise Brockless' hatred sooner.


End file.
